Soon
by Bells23552
Summary: Post-reichenbach. John visits Sherlock's grave and has a heart to heart with a stranger, and it leads to more. more than minor slash. Johnlock.
1. Soon

Soon.

It had become habit for John. One day of every month he would drop by Sherlock's grave. Sometimes he would tell Sherlock how his life was going, but of course, "You probably already knew that." John would say. Sometimes he would stand there and think. And although he would never admit it, sometimes he would sit there and let the tears flow silently.

At first people were worried that John would get a bit obsessed over Sherlock's death. The constant visiting to his resting place didn't help the hushed whispers. John never cared what other people thought. He knew it was okay. He was coping. Everyday got a bit easier since the little ritual started. Once he even brought flowers, but after the inquiry of visiting a lover, he stopped. John had already had come to terms with his love for Sherlock. A lot more than as a brother, and a bit less than anything too serious. He tried not to think about it that much, it felt wrong trying to determine your feelings towards a dead man.

On a brisk day in the month of October, John made his way towards Sherlock—er—Sherlock's grave. This time he felt ready to admit to Sherlock—the grave he meant, that he'd finally decided to move out of 221b. As much as John loved living there, everything was Sherlock, and everything hurt. He knew Sherlock would be mad, but it's not as if he was there to stop him. John winced at that thought. John became acquainted with quite a few people at the cemetery. The old woman who visited her dead husband, the family who came to drop flowers off at their mum's grave, and the man who would sit and curse the heavens at the head stone of his brother. But the man standing at the small white marble headstone a bit a ways from Sherlock's was new. _Poor sod, _John thought.

John had finally reached the looming black stone. He loosened the grip on his cane, not realizing how hard he had been previously holding it. He brushed off a few leaves from the smooth surface and ran a thumb over the engraving. Sherlock Holmes. The familiar lump in John's throat showed itself, and no amount of coughing would clear it.

John sniffed and composed himself. _Mustn't cry anymore, _John thought, _he would be confused if he saw me cry, wouldn't understand the—_

"Sentiment." Said an unfamiliar voice, it had belonged to the old man he saw earlier.

"Sorry, what?" John said, obviously not hearing what the man had said before.

"Sentiment, the downfall of us all." He repeated. His voice was eloquent, but raspy. A smoker, Sherlock would note. John rubbed his tired eyes and got a better look at the man. Hunched back, decent amount of dark hair, peppered with gray covering the majority of his face, more hair hidden under a ski cap, and a crooked nose that has probably been broken a time or two. But his eyes. At first John that he was looking at someone else, but there was something missing in those drops of silver. There was no beautiful mind working a mile a minute behind them. Instead there was something else, they were tainted by past bad experiences.

"Don't you agree?" the old man said, pressing for a conversation.

"Ah, no," John said, looking back at Sherlock's grave, "but my friend here would. Would have, that is." John felt the knot in his stomach tighten at the correction. Past tense. Would have. No longer does.

"I see…a friend." The old man looked between John and the gravestone and asked after a bit of silence, "What was he like?"

The question caught John off guard. No one had asked that in a while. He took a minute, unsure of how to answer. "Well, he.." John cleared his throat, "He was a genius. Could figure out your life in less than a minute just by what you were wearing, or what you ate for breakfast. He was a consulting detective. The only one in the world, because he invented the job," John chuckled a bit, "Sometimes he was unbearable. A right git. But I lo-" John caught himself, "I, uh, he was great. He was my best friend, and now he's gone. I'm not mad at him. I was, but, I understand now. He was unpredictable, he got bored. I miss him terribly though. Don't think I ever will get used to it." John coughed as he finished, blinking a few times to push back the tears. The old man just stared for a bit and finally said, "You talk about him like he was more. More than just your friend."

John couldn't help but laugh a bit more. Even after he died, they were still assumed as a couple. He didn't mind as much as he used to. Somehow it made John still feel connected to Sherlock.

"I don't know really. Our relationship—if you could call it that—it was complicated. He was a self-proclaimed sociopath, but he cared. About a few people. Myself being one I suppose. He's ruined some of my relationships. Then again he's also saved my life," John smiled at the memories and pauses, "a week before he," John gestured at the gravestone, "he bought the milk. It was nice, almost like things would return to normal. God I miss him." John pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his fingers through his hair. He was reminded of when they were in Dartmoor and Sherlock had admitted that John was his only friend. And then the night before he jumped, running through London. Hand in hand. John remembered leaving countless dates to go to be with Sherlock, and initially he was always upset, but secretly he never minded. John remembered all the muffled laughter at crime scenes and adrenaline filled chases that nearly always ended with Sherlock clasping John on the shoulder, giving him one of his rare Sherlock smiles. The genuine one, the one that said "I appreciate you in my life." It was love, but in a strange and completely Sherlock way.

"We were eachother's." John said quietly. He felt the man's hand on his shoulder. It felt familiar, but still so alien.

"Don't worry mate, he'll always be with you." The old man smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I lost a friend once, he was a great man. Better than me. I loved him—I still love him, but I hurt him, broke him even. He didn't deserve me in his life." The old man's eyes glazed over, and John felt uncomfortable. John didn't usually have heart to hearts in cemeteries with complete strangers.

"If he's as good a man you say, then he'll forgive you." John said, trying to offer some comfort. The hand squeezed his shoulder and dropped. "Thank you," John said, "for listening, I mean. To me babble about a lost friend."

"He isn't lost, mate," Said the old man almost in a whisper, "Don't ever think he's lost."

John coughed and shifted, uncomfortable again. "Bye then." John turned and limped off towards the exit. He was consumed in his thoughts, again, mostly about Sherlock. As they always were when he left. But this time the thoughts were nice. John loved Sherlock, and he was okay with that. Smiling to himself, John kept walking, not turning back.

He doesn't see the old man straighten his back. John doesn't see the ski cap being removed, unleashing dark brown curls. John doesn't see the man remove his beard and then his nose. John doesn't see the pure human sadness in those silver eyes. And John certainly doesn't hear Sherlock's promise.

"Soon."


	2. Later

He was packing. He was leaving. Leaving 221B. The only home he's known since…forever. Now it was a prison. At every turn, every passing glance, there was Sherlock. John couldn't brush his damn teeth without the familiar stinging in his eyes. As he packs, John tries not to be nostalgic, he really does, but much like the rest of his life, it doesn't go as planned. What had started as a plan to pack all his clothes, ended with him on the floor of his bedroom clutching a pair of gloves that Sherlock had gotten him for Christmas. They were a horrid shade of green, but Sherlock often thought more of practicality than anything else. He fingered the material and thought.

John remembered that Christmas morning clearly. Although the flat was decorated it was missing the warm and cheery Christmas mood, though John had expected that much. Sherlock didn't very much care for the holiday. A "…manifestation of selfish wishes by ignorant people, how incredibly dull John, even for you." Sherlock would say with a scoff. Later though just before John went off to bed, Sherlock had surprised him. Sherlock looked over John, handing him the gloves, unwrapped and still with the price tag.

"The other day at a crime scene, you muttered something about your hands being cold. Here. Happy Christmas, John." Sherlock said, not looking John in the eye.

John had stuttered a thank you and apologized for not getting Sherlock anything. Even if they were a bad gift, they were a gift no less. Sherlock's lips quirked at the corners as he said, "You've already given me quite enough John."

John tightened his grip on the vomit colored gloves. Two years. Two years and he still missed him.

"Dammit Sherlock. What have you done to me?" John whispered his voice small in the nearly empty room.

Reluctantly, John got up from his not so comfortable spot on the floor and shuffled to the kitchen. It had changed very little in the two years. Empty petri dishes lay scattered about the counter. A microscope tucked away in the corner. John could never bring himself to give any of it away. They were the last things that tied Sherlock to the tangible world. The threads tying him to John would snap every day, leaving him more and more alone.

John continued packing away the kitchen and he moved the box to join the couple others in the living room. Most of the things in the flat are—were—Sherlock's. He piled the boxes next to the door. He was leaving tomorrow. Leaving 221b. Leaving Sherlock.

He sat down in his chair and thought. He thought about leaving. He thought about his life now. His boring, pedestrian life. He thought about his mundane job. He thought about Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't be happy with John. Giving in to human emotions to the point of abandoning his only home for a cold, unfriendly flat a bit closer to the surgery.

John was immersed so far in his mind that the world could have been ending and he wouldn't have noticed. The only thing that had snapped him to attention was the door slamming. He shifted his gaze to a steaming cup of tea on the table across from his chair. He'd have to go thank Mrs. Hudson. She'd been so tolerant of his moods. The wallowing in grief, the bitterness. Mrs. Hudson was patron saint of Not Your Housekeeper.

John took a tentative sip at the steaming liquid. John winced at the sharp and bitter taste. Tea was the only thing that never failed to comfort John, but this time it had. Mrs. Hudson must have gotten distracted while making it. He sighed into the half-empty mug of disappointment and set it back down.

John got up from the chair and stretched out his leg. How long had he been sitting? John squinted at his watch-the damn numbers were getting smaller every day-it was half eight. John had been lost in his mind for nearly two hours. John rubbed his eyes and picked up the tea cup and tray. He lumbered down the stairs, his steps uneven due to the stiffness in his bad leg. He knocked lightly on Mrs. Hudson's door. After a moment her kind face appeared as she opened the door. At the sight of John she smiled, it had been a while since he was down for a visit.

"John, dear, you're back, what's brought you over?" she smiled as she asked, ushering John into her flat.

"Can't stay long Mrs. Hudson, just dropping off your mug. Thank you for the tea." John stood his ground at her door, holding out the ceramic cup.

"I didn't bring you any tea, John." Mrs. Hudson looked at him confused. John was just as baffled. He looked down at the cup in his hands.

"Hold on," John said, capturing Mrs. Hudson's attention again, "You said 'you're back' like I'd gone somewhere." John recalled.

"Because you did leave! I heard the door slam. Dreadfully loud, dear, don't do that anymore." Mrs. Hudson tutted.

"Ah, yeah, sorry…I…forgot." John said slowly, his brow furrowing, "I'll be leaving tomorrow. Just wanted a proper good bye."

"Oh John," Mrs. Hudson's eyes saddened as she pulled John into a hug. It took a moment but John reciprocated, "I'll miss you terribly." Mrs. Hudson sniffed.

"I can visit." John said, his voice void of any real promise.

"Of course, dear," Replied Mrs. Hudson, releasing John from the embrace, "now you go off to bed, you look tired." She turned and closed the door, giving him one last smile.

"Right." John said to the closed door, "Goodbye Mrs. Hudson."

John trudged up to his room and fell back onto the bed. The springs groaned in reply. The sound echoing off the empty walls. He stared at the ceiling for a bit. Thinking. Again. The tea cup hadn't been Mrs. Hudson's…and the door slammed…and…

"Really John, I'd have thought you would have gotten there sooner." Said a familiar baritone voice.

John sat in silence for a moment. Unsure if what he had heard was just his mind playing cruel tricks. He sat up from the bed and made eye contact with a dead man. Sherlock Holmes was standing in his bedroom. Sherlock Holmes was walking towards him. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead.

"I'm asleep. You're not here." John said quietly, more to himself.

"I can assure you that I am, John." Sherlock replied, placing a gloved hand on John's shoulder. And John felt warmth. He felt weight on the hand. Sherlock Holmes was alive and John was…furious. Sherlock bloody Holmes is in his room after two years of being dead. A fountain of emotion sprung up in John. Happiness, anger, resentment, confusion, love. Love? Yes love, Sherlock Holmes, the only man John has ever loved. Was back from the dead.

_Back. As in left before. Left you John. Sherlock left you. Left you to grieve him. He didn't love you enough to tell you he was alive._ A voice at the back of John's mind said.

John was angry now.

"You were _dead_. I saw you. Y-You had no pulse Sherlock." John's voice was getting louder. He stood up from the bed and stood in front of his, what? His best friend? Were they even friends still? "I saw you jump, there was blood…so much blood." John's eyes went out of focus as he recalled that day. The moment his insides melted. The moment Captain John H. Watson broke.

"John I-" Sherlock began to explain but was cut off by a fist connecting to his face.

"You. Were. DEAD." John said, punctuating every word with a forceful prod to Sherlock's chest.

"John, please stop being so irrational—" Sherlock started rubbing his jaw, but was cut off by John again.

"Irrational? IRRATIONAL?! My best friend comes back from the dead after two—almost three-years and me being angry is irrational? You left me behind, with one of the most vague suicide note ever _thank you very much_, and you think my reaction is irrational? I can't deal with this Sherlock." John huffed, attempting to walk past his previously dead flat mate to leave.

"I thought you missed me. It seemed like you did at the graveyard every month." Sherlock bit back.

"Of course I missed you Sherlock. Missed you like hell." John said with gritted teeth, "but you can't just come back from the dead and expect everything to be okay. You can't do that to me. You can't—hold on," John turned to face Sherlock, "You were there, at the graveyard, every month?"

Sherlock stared into John's eyes, and continued staring into them. Sherlock wasn't analyzing everything about John. He was just staring into him. And his eyes were desperate. The silver searching for something in John that said _I forgive you_. But he wouldn't find it right now.

"Yes." Sherlock replied finally.

"You were the old man.

"Correct."

"I babbled on and on about you _to you_."

"Correct again, John, I assume you're reaching a point?"

John looked for something to say. Wracked his brain for any possible reply. He came up with nothing. He opened and closed his mouth several times, not wanting to say what he had to. But this was the rational response. John needed to think.

"I can't deal with this Sherlock. Not now. Please just, get out." John said finally, his voice cracking at the end.

"But John." Sherlock began to disagree.

"I don't—I don't mean out of here, out of the flat, just…get out of my room." John stared at the floor. As Sherlock walked past and out of the room

"When can we talk John?" Sherlock's voice was softer now, pleading almost. He stood in the doorway, waiting for an answer. John didn't answer and Sherlock tried again, "John." His voice dripped with something John had never heard come from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was upset. Genuinely upset.

"John," Sherlock started once more, "I need you to give me a chance to explain. Please."

John's heart dropped into his stomach. The man's voice was filled with this sense of pure human need. John looked up at Sherlock again. Mistake. Sherlock looked a mess. Dark circles under his eyes, his lips chapped and cracked, eyes red from...what…crying? John swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock stared into him again. Not analyzing. Just looking.

After a forever of silence, John finally spoke.

"Later." He said, closing the door on the consulting detective.

QUICK PREVIEW FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER adfjnakdjfskjghaslkjgfsg.

"I'm sorry I hit you." John said into Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's arms tightened around him.

"I'm sorry I left you." Sherlock said quietly, pressing his lips to the top of John's head.


	3. Never

Never

John paced back and forth with enough urgency to wear away at the floor. Sherlock Holmes was back, back at 221b, back to John. It was a bittersweet reunion. Heavy on the bitter. Of course John was happy Sherlock was back, he was over the damn moon about it. Though there was that doubt, that doubt that made John unable to just let Sherlock back into his life. It was impossible for things to just resume. Sherlock had broken John, it was a fact. He had taken John in, fixed him, and then just tossed him aside afterwards. If John were to be brutally honest, he would say Sherlock Holmes took his heart and brought it with him to his fake grave.

John ran his fingers through his hair again. All of this had been exhausting. He needed tea. But Sherlock was downstairs, and John wasn't sure he could handle seeing him right now. For two reasons, either John will attack the man and beat him to the ground, or he'll break down and turn into a puddle of emotion. Unacceptable on both accounts (especially the latter). What would he say to Sherlock? 'Sherlock, I'm royally pissed at you but..christ. . I love you and since you got back half of me wants to yell and be mad at you and the other half can't stop thinking about how your lips would feel on mine.'? Yeah, that wouldn't work.

After a few more moments indulging in his small crisis, John decided that if he could survive a war he could survive seeing is not-so-dead flatmate again. He let out a sigh and exited his room, making his way downstairs to Sherlock—er—the kitchen.

John walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The flat felt no different. Sherlock's presence had not actually altered reality. John controlled his breathing. It was just Sherlock, he could handle it. He finished making his tea and turned around, nearly dropping the cup at the sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway. He clearly couldn't handle this.

"Christ" John breathed out; making sure none of his tea had spilled.

"No, just me." Sherlock's lip twitched. Seeing John again, no matter how angry, just filled Sherlock with something…good. Like something that was missing before had now returned. Sherlock felt whole around John.

"Yes. Funny." John said shortly, moving quickly past Sherlock into the living room.

"Are we not going to speak about this? I know you have questions." Sherlock inquired, taking his seat in front of John. It almost felt like normal again. Almost.

"Just one actually," John said, swallowing a gulp of tea, "Why?"

"Why, what? John. You know I hate vagueness."

"Sherlock." John said sternly, quickly losing his patience.

"I had to, John. To save you," Sherlock paused for half a second, "and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade of course. Moriarty was threatening your lives. I had to John." His voice softened just a fraction.

John sat there quietly. Thinking. He looked up at Sherlock and back into his tea, as if it held the answer to the problem he was faced with. He licked his lips and looked up at Sherlock again. There was something in his eyes, something that pleaded with John. But should he forgive him?

And the longer the silence was drawn out, the more Sherlock felt doubt. Doubt that John would ever forgive him. The silence started stringing even more words of doubt in Sherlock's mind. _He'll never forgive you let alone lo—_Sherlock quieted his mind, ignoring the acidic words burning behind his eyes.

They sat there staring at each other, trying to process what to do next. John shook his head, got up from the chair and moved to leave the room. He couldn't do this. No matter how much he thought he could. Sherlock went to follow him, but John protested.

"Don't," John coughed out, putting a hand up to emphasize. "Just stay over there. Please."

John looked up from the floor. Sherlock was stone faced. His lips stretched tight into a thin line. Now his eyes were devoid of any emotion. John took the lack of response as another chance to speak,

"Sherlock. You were gone, you _left._ In fact, you didn't just leave you DIED. If you think for one moment that you can just burst in here, and pretend that everything is going to be fine and that we'll be solving cases again—"

"We." Sherlock interrupted.

"What?" John sighed.

"You said we."

"Glad to see your observational skills are still spot on."

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes for a moment. A familiar glint from whenever they got into their banter. John's heart lurched. The only thing he wanted right now was for everything to be right again. But it wouldn't be. Ever. Sherlock spoke again, his eyes boring into John's.

"You keep saying I left, John. But, you fail to remember that I returned. I returned to you. Aside from Mycroft, you are the only one who knows I am still breathing. I had to leave. For you, John," Sherlock seemed breathless, "for you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty was going to have you killed. Dead, John. The idea of you dead filled me with something so awful that I couldn't entertain the idea for more than half a second. So yes, John, I did leave, but there wasn't one day that went by where I didn't wonder how you were. It terrified me, sometimes, when I got into fights and after, instead of basking in the adrenaline high, all I could think about was Baker Street. Of how good it felt to have a home. To have you."

Sherlock crossed the room and stood an arms-length away from John, "And you said 'we' John so obviously you want a sense of normalcy and the fact that you kept most of my items and clothing means that you wanted to believe that I wasn't gone. You wanted me alive, and here I am."

They stood in tense silence. John was staring past Sherlock rather than at him. John's head not quite turned toward his. Sherlock's words echoed in his mind. Maybe it could work…maybe…

"Look at me, John." Sherlock said quietly, his voice wavering a bit.

John refused to meet his eyes, so Sherlock did the only sensible thing and grabbed John's face and forced it forward to face him. John flinched at the contact; Sherlock's hands were surprisingly warm. John was not used to the warmth of a human body so close to him, and not just any human body. Sherlock's. Sherlock's living, breathing, and existing body. He breathed in deep, inhaling the smell of his old friend. What used to be the smell of chemicals and soap was now just dust and gunpowder. John examined Sherlock's face, again, for the thousandth time. The last time he saw Sherlock, there was blood running from a crack in his head. A flood of emotion rushed into John. He had never been one to hold a grudge and to be frank, he was tired of being angry at Sherlock. It was unfair to the man in all honesty. He supposed, from how Sherlock was acting and how he looked, that maybe, just a little, Sherlock had missed John too.

"I love you." John said simply breaking the fragile silence.

"You mean loved." Sherlock said, his hands releasing pressure from John's face.

"Did love, do love, and will love. So, deal with that, you git." John said, a small smile playing across his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oh." Sherlock breaths. And then his mind started whirring again.

John nods and Sherlock releases his face. He is thinking, thinking hard, for the first time since he had taken down the last of Moriarty's web. Thinking about John, about them. Factoring and trying to solve the enigma that was John Watson.

"I understand," John started, "why you left. And I suppose I should thank you…for saving my life." John said slowly, watching Sherlock close for any hint of a reaction. But the reaction that followed was not expected in any realm of John's mind. Sherlock pulled John in, and Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only Consulting Detective was hugging Doctor John Watson. And that was a bigger miracle than him returning from the dead.

"I'm sorry I hit you." John said into Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John.

"I'm sorry I left you." Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips to the top of John's head.

They stood there for a bit, reveling in the warmth being transferred between the two. Their breaths matching and their hearts beating for each other. John was afraid that any movement, even him reciprocating the hug or even speaking, would end this wild fantasy. But to hell with that.

"Does this mean that you love me too, then?" John asked, finally bringing his arms around Sherlock, the action felt strange. But good strange.

"John, I would not have come back if I didn't love you. My years away were nearly a form torture. Admittedly, they were mentally stimulating but, knowing how much I had hurt you, it hurt me in a way that scared me, in fact it still scares me. I'm supposed to be cold, detached. A high-functioning sociopath. But you John, you changed that. You turned the chasing Moriarty's allies into a mission to get back home to you, rather than to finally win against him." Sherlock sighed, pulling away slightly to look at John. His John.

"I don't know how we're going to make this work." John admitted, "but I know I want it too."

"And I as well." Sherlock said ghosting his lips across John's. The action making both of them shiver with desire, but that would have to wait. They were going to have to move slowly, no matter how much they craved each other.

"And you won't leave again?" John asked, his voice full of doubt.

"Never." Sherlock affirmed, pulling John close again.


End file.
